Zhang Jiale returning to the scene and joining Team Tyranny would happen just like he said he would. The fans' entreaty failed to change a thing. This topic was enough to attract controversy. However, the entire Glory scene's attention had now been stolen away by the Challenger League.
The Challenger League had the old powerhouse Excellent Era, gossip about Ye Qiu, and an Internet cafe team that even dared to challenge Excellent Era.
Zhang Jiale's official return didn't go unnoticed, but the attention received was lessened. This was obviously good for Zhang Jiale. His return came with a lot of pressure. He wasn't completely unmoved by the fans' requests. For an instant, he even felt the urge to return to Team Hundred Blossoms, so that he could meet his fans' expectations. But in the end, his desire to win the championships was too great, so he stuck with his original path.
He prepared for the incoming attacks, but who would have thought news of the Challenger League would be so explosive, lowering the pressure on him. Zhang Jiale was glad.
"What did he do now?" He had seen how Lord Grim was Ye Qiu, but also not Ye Qiu. He was Ye Qiu in the game, but in the Challenger League, he wasn't Ye Qiu. Zhang Jiale felt a bit dizzy, but in any case, getting through the Challenger League would require overcoming Excellent Era.
"It seems like it won't be so easy for us to meet again……" Zhang Jiale mumbled to himself. Excellent Era's current competitive strength was truly a waste in the Challenger League.
"What's not so easy?" Zhang Jiale was muttering to himself, when he suddenly heard someone behind him ask him a question. He turned around to see who it was. The other three aces of Tyranny, Han Wenqing, Zhang Xinjie, and Lin Jingyan had all walked in together. Zhang Jiale had gone alone to the press conference, announcing his official addition to Team Tyranny. Even though Tyranny had arranged for Han Wenqing to come with him, Zhang Jiale refused it politely. He didn't want too much pressure, but he didn't fear it either. He felt like this pressure should be assumed by him alone.
"Oh, I'm talking about this guy. I'm saying it won't be easy for him." Zhang Jiale pointed at the newspaper he was holding. It was the ESports Weekly, which belonged to ESports Home, the most reputable source of eSports news in the country. The newspaper was issued twice a week on Mondays and Thursdays, reporting all eSports news both inside and outside of the country. Glory was the number one game in eSports at the moment, so it occupied the majority of the front page.
It was Thursday today. Zhang Jiale had the most recent issue of the ESports Weekly. The news couldn't be the most immediate news. Zhang Jiale had officially announced his return today, so this issue obviously wouldn't have anything related to his announcement. The majority of the front page consisted of the commotion caused by Excellent Era two days ago.
Han Wenqing and the other two didn't participate in the press conference with Zhang Jiale, but they knew that the press conference couldn't have been a relaxing one for him. Whether it was a good topic to write about, or because of their actual feelings on the subject, the reporters would certainly have many difficult and penetrating questions for Zhang Jiale.
The three were a bit worried that he would be feeling downcast, but from the looks of it, he was still in the mood to look at gossip. It seemed like he could completely handle the pressure!
"Challenger League rules allow you to add team members whenever you wish." Zhang Xinjie said.
"So you're saying that he might appear after the team fights for some time?" Lin Jingyan said.
"Could he have made a mistake? Maybe he thought the retirement period wouldn't allow him to participate in the Challenger League, so he held off on registering?" Zhang Jiale laughed.
"I don't think he'd be so unclear about what he's doing." Zhang Xinjie said.
The other three fell silent. Lord Grim was an unspecialized character. That was no secret, and as pro players, they obviously knew how difficult it was to use an unspecialized. It was quite possible that only the one known as the Glory Encyclopedia could properly control this character.
"But then who's the person who registered as Lord Grim?" Lin Jingyan asked.
"That's a problem for Excellent Era to worry about." Han Wenqing said.
"Oh, let me ask you guys! If you had to choose between that guy's team and Team Excellent Era to return, who would you rather choose?" Zhang Jiale suddenly said.
"Me….. even though Excellent Era appears extremely strong on paper, I still think that guy's much more difficult to deal with. If we're thinking about winning the championships, then I would rather choose Excellent Era." Zhang Jiale said.
"Mm, Excellent Era then!" Zhang Xinjie said. He didn't say the reason, but his "mm" represented his approval towards Zhang Jiale's reasoning.
"Indeed, if it's that guy, and since we don't know anything about his team, then I'd choose Excellent Era!" Lin Jingyan said.
The three turned their heads to look at their captain, Han Wenqing.
"I hope for a pleasant cooperation." Han Wenqing shook his hand. As the representative for Team Tyranny, he officially admitted their new team member.
There were only three days remaining for Chen Guo's promotion deal. The Internet cafe was still packed, but the sounds of ridicule towards Happy had lessened greatly.
Those players didn't have the face to keep on mocking them anymore. They kept on trying to slap their face, but Happy slapped them back instead. They didn't have the qualifications to call out Happy for not knowing the difference between heaven and earth. If you wanted to say something, you at least needed to back it up, no? Happy received all sorts of challenges, but they never lost a single one!
Despite all of this, their anger hadn't completely dissipated, especially after Excellent Era's reveal, which received a lot of controversy. Although Happy was no longer surrounded by angry fans, there were still plenty of people trying to figure out if Ye Qiu really was there or not. The media didn't only come once to dig out the truth. Happy Internet Cafe's owner and self-proclaimed owner of the team, Chen Guo, refused to budge. She refused to leak anything regarding the team. She simply told everyone that they would find out sooner or later.
They would obviously know sooner or later. Once they reached the final stages of the Challenger League and went to the offline studio, every member would be revealed, but who wanted to wait until then? There were still three days left and the number of participating teams had already passed ten thousand. According to the past, the last few days remaining would also have a sudden spike in registrations. The number of teams participating this year was clearly more than last year's. This was also proof of the Glory Alliance's continued growth.
More teams meant more rounds in the early stages of the Challenger League. The offline studios wouldn't be played in until even later in the year. The spectators wanted to know the answer, but it was going to be dragged out for so long. They couldn't bear it!
But what could they do? Happy's owner refused to say anything. It's not like they could put a knife to her throat and demand it!
There were a few impolite players who barged into Happy Internet Cafe to search, but how could they come up with anything? At this point, if Ye Xiu and the others stayed in the second floor, they would too overconfident. Ye Xiu and the others had already moved into their gaming house.
In the end, nothing else about Happy came out to the dismay of countless gossipers. The noise from Excellent Era fans had also died down significantly too, because it proved that their so-called experts had all been crushed in front of Happy. Their ability wasn't enough to take down Happy. Even though a few refused to admit their mistake and argued noisily despite having nothing on their hands to back them up, these people were the minority. They continued to shout loudly, but they didn't get anywhere with it.
Excellent Era fans were still thinking of slapping Happy's face, but their most powerful force was Guild Excellent Dynasty. Demands started rushing in again. When Chen Yehui received the news, he felt like dying. How did it all come back full circle? Before, he had come across this problem and knowing that his guild's experts would only get crushed too, he thought of revealing Lord Grim's identity, using this topic to divert attention.
But before Happy could even respond to their statement, the media revealed the truth, destroying all their efforts. The fans turned this way and that, before shouting at Guild Excellent Dynasty to save them again.
"Did they not see the news! Ye Qiu isn't registered, but he's certainly in Happy! How could people in the game even hope to beat him? That Soft Mist just might be Ye Qiu, which is why she's so strong! Why is everyone turning a blind eye to all of the analysis going on out there?" Chen Yehui wanted to say this to the fans, but as someone who represented the club, he couldn't make any inappropriate statements.
Cui Li had already emphasized that Chen Yehui could not receive help from pro players either.
Hm…… just when he was thinking about how pro players were no good, Chen Yehui suddenly had an idea.
Pro players weren't convenient to use, but what about the training camp? The little demons of the training camp had received professional training. In terms of their skill, they were certainly better than any in-game expert. If he gathered a few of them, maybe they could beat Happy? Management would support this idea, right?
NineAnime is the best site to reading The King's Avatar The King's Avatar Chapter 787 - Going Full Circle free online. You can also go Novels Genres to read other novel or check Latest Releases for new releases.


text:
Q: R - random number generation I want to generate a numeric vector of random numbers between 0 and 5,000 of length 2,500 and call it x.
Then I want to make a numeric vector y of all the numbers between 0 and 5,000 which aren't in x, which by definition is also length 2,500.
Then for each of these vectors I'd like to extract the corresponding row numbers from a table.
Is there an easy way to do this?

A: You can try this. The main object holds a table with two columns (you can think of them as your x and y).
main <- sample(1:5000, 5000)
main <- matrix(main, ncol = 2)
head(main)

     [,1] [,2]
[1,] 3146 4834
[2,] 4129 4297
[3,]  510 1843
[4,] 4513 1167
[5,] 1281 2550
[6,] 1076 4377

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


Located on the first floor street entrance.
For mapping visit our contact us page.
Queens Counseling for Change (QCC), provides behavioral counseling services. Services are provided by licensed counselors with many years of experience in the field. The agency is led by Larry Menzie, LCSW/R and Beth Covelli, LCSW/R social workers with over 25yrs of experience providing services in a variety of settings. QCC understands entering counseling whether mandated or voluntary is a big step and you or your support system may have many questions or not know what to expect. While many questions can only be answered by meeting with you our FAQ page is a great place to start.
QCC is pleased to announce many forms of Medicaid, Medicare and Private Insurances are now accepted. At this time insurance is only accepted for Problematic Sexual Behaviors. For a complete and up to date list go to our Treatment Information page.
The agency also works with those that do not have access to or choose not to use their insurance coverage for whatever reason. Fees are reasonable and can be paid with cash, credit card or check. Sliding scale fees are considered on a case by case basis with appropriate documentation.
NOW ACCEPTING REFERRALS specialized programming for 13yr olds to 18yr olds seeking to address problematic sexual behaviors. Email Larry@QCFC.org with any questions.
Call 718-424-6191 to schedule an intake appointment. You will be asked for your name, call back number, insurance information (if applicable), who is sending you and for what service. Have a pen ready to write down the date and time. Most questions including our address can be found in our FAQ page.
If you can not attend your group call 718-303-4320. This number is not to be used for cancelling an intake or individual session, call our main number to reschedule.
Group cancellations will not be accepted unless you call this number.
Please leave a clear message with your name, group, and reason for cancellation. This number is voicemail only; do not call repeatedly in an attempt to speak with someone. All information will be placed in your file regarding your call.


"The responses to an open-ended online survey question were heart-wrenching.
Continue reading this article at next avenue, click here.
See this article posted here a year ago, "Lebanon County partners' network FREE Special workshop: "Moving toward trauma-informed care is success" for more about adverse childhood experiences.
"His program included this exceptional (click on the graphic to watch the) "less than 18 minute" TEDTalk.


Letters to a Lifer: the Boy "Never to be Released" by Cindy Sanford, with a foreword by Jeanne Bishop, is a powerful and touching narrative that illustrates the folly of life sentences for juvenile offenders. The memoir chronicles the relationship between the author—a registered nurse, wife, and mother of three boys—and an inmate named Ken who was fifteen when his role in a double homicide near Sanford's home in Pennsylvania led to a sentence of life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Sanford does an excellent job of tracking the emotional response she has to Ken as she learns of his history of childhood neglect and abuse and his attempts, through his artwork and care for birds in the prison, to demonstrate to the world the ways he has changed, and she does so in a way that had a huge impact on my own perspective. It is easy to assume that someone who has been convicted of a heinous crime should be locked away for life and to not think too deeply about the life and the humanity that is forever changed by the verdict.
As I reader, I shared Sanford's initial suspicion of Ken's motives and kind letters to and interactions with her, but, much in the same way that she experienced, over the course of the memoir I abandoned all suspicion of Ken and began to marvel at the strength of his character. While Sanford's relationship with Ken (and his with her) is deeply touching, the book is also deeply sad. As I grew further enamored with Ken, it was easy to forget that he is serving a life sentence. Many times throughout the book, I wanted so badly for it to end with Ken's release and his chance for redemption in society – but Pennsylvania does not allow for that.
In the end, Letters to a Lifer really hammers home that life sentences for juvenile offenders should be reconsidered by courts retroactively.
It is our fervent hope that sharing our story will spark a national conversation about the tragedy and consequences of sentencing children to die in prison. However that issue is decided, we leave our testimony that Ken is proof young people can be rehabilitated. We are convinced that imposing such harsh sentences on minors, particularly those who were victims of violence and abuse themselves, demeans us as a nation and people.
Cindy Sanford's memoir is available via Amazon and Goodreads. More information about the book and about the movement to end sentences of life in prison without parole for youth may be found here.
Ken's gorgeous acrylic wildlife art and landscapes hand-painted on real leaves (see photos above) may be viewed at the Letters to a Lifer blog and purchased on Etsy.
This entry was posted in Books, Guest Blogger, Juveniles, Miller v. Alabama, Sentencing, Uncategorized, Victimized Children, Visual Arts. Bookmark the permalink.


text:
Home AMC Better Call Saul Better Call Saul: Is Gustavo "Gus" Fring Gay or Straight?
Better Call Saul: Is Gustavo "Gus" Fring Gay or Straight?
Is Gustavo "Gus" Fring Gay or Straight? – While other characters are the main focus of both "Breaking Bad" and its precursor "Better Call Saul," Gustavo "Gus" Fring (Giancarlo Esposito) plays a crucial part in both shows. He is the owner of the successful Los Pollos Hermanos chain of fried chicken eateries. He transports cocaine from Mexico to the US while working covertly for the cartel. He kills his Mexican cartel bosses later in "Breaking Bad," ostensibly to exact revenge for the passing of his comrade Max Arciniega (James Martinez). There have been rumors that Gus and Max had a love relationship. What you need to know about it is listed below.
Also Read: Why Did Nacho Kill Himself?
Is Gustavo "Gus" Fring Gay or Straight?
Fans have been curious about Gus' sexuality since the 'Breaking Bad' episode 'Hermanos' (season 4 episode 8) aired. In the 1980s, after starting to give away free samples of the pure meth that Max had made to Cartel members, Gus and Max encounter Don Eladio, the cartel's leader, in the book. Gus thought of this strategy because he thought it would be the most straightforward approach to get Eladio's attention.
Although not in their desired manner, their antics caught Eladio's attention. He was enraged at them for selling within his jurisdiction without his consent. While Max was attempting to defend Gus' conduct, he ordered Hector Salamanca to kill Max. Eladio then informs Juan Bolsa that Gus is only still alive due to his past in Chile as Juan Bolsa continues to hold Gus down.
Both AMC's "Breaking Bad" and "Better Call Saul" make it increasingly apparent how Max's passing has shaped Gus' behavior in the years since. Max was a native of the Chilean slums of Santiago. He met Gus at one point or another. Even Max's chemistry studies at the Universidad of Santiago de Chile were funded by the latter. Together, they created Los Pollos Hermanos. Gus is often calm and stoic. Nevertheless, his absolute anguish, pain, and vulnerability in the wake of Max's passing spoke volumes about their bond.
But like most things in this make-believe world, these indications of Gus and Max's friendship were understated until season 6 episode 9, "Fun and Games." Gus attends a restaurant after seeing Eladio, Bolsa, and Hector and escaping Hector's charges that he killed Lalo. There, he quickly notices the sommelier, David (Reed Diamond). The two men's familiarity with one another is soon obvious.
Surprisingly animated, their talk centers on wine and European travel. There are enough hints in the scene to convince the viewer that Gus is not acting kindly and cordial with his cartel subordinates or employees in this situation. He is genuinely pleased to be here and talk with David about wine and travel.
This is probably the last confirmation of Gus' sexuality we will hear since "Better Call" is soon to come to an end. Although it may not be much, it is sufficient. Both the scene's finish and its sparseness are an incredible fit for the character. David nearly accepts Gus' invitation to share a $5,000 bottle of wine with him, but Gus quickly recalls who he is.
The vicious crime boss reappears from within Gus while David has gone off to get a bottle of Guigal to display to him, putting an end to all hope. Gus then turns around and walks away, realizing who he has become once more.
There are only 4 episodes left.
A new #BetterCallSaul premieres Monday at 9pm on @AMC_TV and @AMCPlus. pic.twitter.com/n6gVKXkJfQ
— Better Call Saul (@BetterCallSaul) July 19, 2022
See Also: Southern Charm – Where is Jenna King Now?
Is Gus Fring Gay in Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul
Is Gustavo "Gus" Fring Gay
Previous articleSouthern Charm: Where is Jenna King Now?
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Better Call Saul and Breaking Bad Timeline Overlap: Explained
Better Call Saul: What Happens to Kim Wexler? Is She Dead or Alive?
Better Call Saul Season 6 Episode 4 Recap and Ending Explained

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
"""
categories.py

    The definition of the /categories endpoing for the API.
"""
from flask import jsonify, request
from flask_restful import abort, fields, marshal, marshal_with, Resource

import api.constants as CONSTANT
import api.errors.codes as CODE
import api.errors.messages as MESSAGE

from api.collections.category import CategoryCollection
from api.parsers.category_parser import CategoryParser
from api.parsers.validators import ParserValidator
from api.utilities.util import eprint, clean_args

from api.resources.fields import CategoryAddFields, CategoryDelFields
from api.resources.fields import CategoryGetFields, ErrorMessageFields

class Category(Resource):
    def __init__(self, **kwargs):
        self.mongo = kwargs['mongo']
        self.Categories = CategoryCollection(collection=self.mongo.Category)

    def get(self, cat_id=None):
        """
        The GET method for the /categories endpoint. This retrieves either
        a single category or multiple categories from the database.
        """
        if cat_id and ParserValidator.isValidObjectId(cat_id):
            # Find a category given a validly formatted category_id
            output = self.Categories.find_by_id(cat_id)

            # Error out if there's no matching category_id
            if output == None:
                return(
                    marshal(MESSAGE.CATEGORY_NOT_FOUND, ErrorMessageFields),
                    CODE.STATUS_NOT_FOUND
                )
        elif cat_id and not ParserValidator.isValidObjectId(cat_id):
            # Error message for invalid id
            return(
                marshal(MESSAGE.CATEGORY_INVALID_ID, ErrorMessageFields),
                CODE.STATUS_BAD_REQUEST
            )
        elif len(request.args.keys()) > 0:
            # Search for categories based off a specific query
            args = CategoryParser.get()
            output = self.Categories.text_search(args.q)
        else:
            # Return all of the categories in the database
            output = self.Categories.all()

        return marshal(output, CategoryGetFields), CODE.STATUS_OK

    def post(self):
        """
        The POST method for the /categories endpoint. This creates a new
        category.
        """
        args = CategoryParser.post()
        output = self.Categories.add(clean_args(args))

        return marshal(output, CategoryAddFields), CODE.STATUS_CREATED

    def put(self, cat_id):
        """
        The PUT method for the /categories endpoint. This updates an existing
        category.
        """
        if cat_id and ParserValidator.isValidObjectId(cat_id):
            args = CategoryParser.put()

            # Special parsing for the 'approved' argument.
            if 'approved' in args:
                if args['approved'].strip().lower() == 'true':
                    args['approved'] = True
                elif args['approved'].strip().lower() == 'false':
                    args['approved'] = False
                else:
                    return(
                        marshal(MESSAGE.CATEGORY_INVALID_APPROVAL,
                            ErrorMessageFields),
                        MESSAGE.CATEGORY_INVALID_APPROVAL['status']
                    )

            output = self.Categories.edit(cat_id, clean_args(args))
            return(
                marshal(output, CategoryGetFields),
                CODE.STATUS_OK
            )
            return output
        elif cat_id and not ParserValidator.isValidObjectId(cat_id):
            # Error message for invalid id
            output = MESSAGE.CATEGORY_INVALID_ID
        else:
            # Catch-all error
            output = MESSAGE.SERVER_ERROR

        return(
            marshal(output.message, ErrorMessageFields),
            output.status
        )

    def delete(self, cat_id):
        """ The DELETE method for the /categories endpoint. """
        if cat_id and ParserValidator.isValidObjectId(cat_id):
            # Delete a category given a validly formatted category_id
            ret = self.Categories.delete(cat_id)

            if ret and ret['n'] == 0:
                # Not found.
                output = MESSAGE.CATEGORY_NOT_FOUND
            elif ret and ret['n'] == 1:
                # Successful deletion
                return None, CODE.STATUS_NO_CONTENT
            else:
                # Some kind of error
                eprint('Deleted {} from Categories collection using ID {}'.format(ret['n'], cat_id))
                output = MESSAGE.SERVER_ERROR
        elif cat_id and not ParserValidator.isValidObjectId(cat_id):
            # Error message for invalid id
            output = MESSAGE.CATEGORY_INVALID_ID
        else:
            # Catch-all error
            output = MESSAGE.SERVER_ERROR

        return(
            marshal(output['message'], ErrorMessageFields),
            output['status']
        )

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


text:
package org.postgresql.pljava.sqlgen;

import java.util.ArrayList;
import java.util.List;

import org.objectweb.asm.AnnotationVisitor;
import org.objectweb.asm.Type;
import org.postgresql.pljava.TriggerData;
import org.postgresql.pljava.annotation.Function;

/**
 * @author Thomas Hallgren
 */
public class FunctionVisitor extends DefaultAnnotationVisitor
{
	private final String m_className;

	private final String m_methodName;

	private final String m_methodSignature;

	private final String m_methodDescriptor;

	private String m_name = "";

	private String m_schema = "";

	private Function.OnNullInput m_onNullInput = Function.OnNullInput.CALLED;

	private Function.Security m_security = Function.Security.INVOKER;

	private Function.Type m_type = Function.Type.VOLATILE;

	/**
	 * The Triggers that will call this function (if any).
	 */
	private ArrayList<TriggerVisitor> m_triggers;

	FunctionVisitor(String className, String methodName, String methodDescriptor, String methodSignature)
	{
		m_className = className;
		m_methodName = methodName;
		m_methodSignature = methodSignature;
		m_methodDescriptor = methodDescriptor;
	}

	public void visit(String name, Object value)
	{
		if("name".equals(name))
			m_name = (String)value;
		else if("schema".equals(name))
			m_schema = (String)value;
		else
			throw new UnrecognizedAttributeException(name);
	}

	public void visitEnum(String name, String desc, String value)
	{
		if("onNullInput".equals(name))
			m_onNullInput = Function.OnNullInput.valueOf(value);
		else if("security".equals(name))
			m_security = Function.Security.valueOf(value);
		else if("type".equals(name))
			m_type = Function.Type.valueOf(value);
		else
			throw new UnrecognizedAttributeException(name);
	}

	public AnnotationVisitor visitArray(String name)
	{
		if(name.equals("triggers"))
		{
			if(m_triggers == null)
				m_triggers = new ArrayList<TriggerVisitor>();
			return new DefaultAnnotationVisitor()
			{
				public AnnotationVisitor visitAnnotation(String desc,
					boolean visible)
				{
					TriggerVisitor ta = new TriggerVisitor();
					m_triggers.add(ta);
					return ta;
				}
			};
		}
		throw new UnrecognizedAttributeException(name);
	}

	public void visitEnd()
	{
		// Verify that trigger functions have correct signature
		//
		if(m_triggers != null)
		{
			String desc = this.getMethodDescriptor();
			Type[] argTypes = Type.getArgumentTypes(desc);
			if(!(argTypes.length == 1
			&& argTypes[0].equals(Type.getType(TriggerData.class))
			&& Type.getReturnType(desc).equals(Type.VOID_TYPE)))
				throw new MalformedTriggerException(this);
		}
	}

	public final String getName()
	{
		return (m_name.length() == 0) ? m_methodName : m_name;
	}

	public String getReturnType()
	{
		if(m_triggers != null)
			return "trigger";

		String sign = (m_methodSignature == null) ? m_methodDescriptor : m_methodSignature;
		return TypeMapper.getDefault().getSQLType(
			GenericType.getReturnType(sign));
	}

	public String[] getArgumentTypes()
	{
		if(m_triggers != null)
			return new String[0];

		TypeMapper mapper = TypeMapper.getDefault();
		String sign = (m_methodSignature == null) ? m_methodDescriptor : m_methodSignature;
		GenericType[] argTypes = GenericType.getArgumentTypes(sign);
		int idx = argTypes.length;

		String[] sqlTypes = new String[idx];
		while(--idx >= 0)
			sqlTypes[idx] = mapper.getSQLType(argTypes[idx]);
		return sqlTypes;
	}

	public String[] getParameterTypes()
	{
		Type[] argTypes = Type.getArgumentTypes(m_methodDescriptor);
		int idx = argTypes.length;
		String[] paramTypes = new String[idx];
		while(--idx >= 0)
			paramTypes[idx] = argTypes[idx].getClassName();
		return paramTypes;
	}

	public final String getClassName()
	{
		return m_className;
	}

	public final String getMethodDescriptor()
	{
		return m_methodDescriptor;
	}

	public final String getMethodName()
	{
		return m_methodName;
	}

	public final String getMethodSignature()
	{
		return m_methodSignature;
	}

	public final Function.OnNullInput getOnNullInput()
	{
		return m_onNullInput;
	}

	public final String getSchema()
	{
		return m_schema;
	}

	public final Function.Security getSecurity()
	{
		return m_security;
	}

	public final List<TriggerVisitor> getTriggers()
	{
		return m_triggers;
	}

	public final Function.Type getType()
	{
		return m_type;
	}
}


A Fault-Tolerant Mobile Computing Model Based On Scalable Replica.
Mobile Computing based on Cloud (CLOUDIZE).
Profile Based Location Update Strategy in Mobile Computing.
AN EFFICIENT TASK SCHEDULING ALGORITHM TO OPTIMIZE RELIABILITY IN MOBILE COMPUTING.
A Super Peer-based Reputation Scheme for Mobile Computing Environments.
A web based Publish-Subscribe framework for Mobile Computing.
Abstract:The growing popularity of mobile devices is permanently changing the Internet user's computing experience. Smartphones and tablets begin to replace the desktop as the primary means of interacting with various information technology and web resources.
B.Tech. (SEM. VIII) EVEN THEORY EXAMINATION 2012-13 MOBILE COMPUTING Note :- Attempt all questions. 1. Attempt any four parts ofthefollowing : (Sx4=20) (a) Explain the word "Mobile Computing" and also give suitable live example with merits of Mobile Computing.
Abstract The rise in adoption of mobile cloud computing (MCC) has increased the security concerns and this fact has motivated security practitioners to consider novel lightweight authentication approaches in order to improve the authentication as a service (AaaS).
User Privacy Preservation in Mobile Cloud Computing by Two Levels of Spatial Cloaking.
Implementing Mobile Multimedia Applications Using Cloud Computing.
17 vii Page 8. 7 2.1.1 Mobile Computing 17 2.1.1.1 Features 19 2.1 GENERAL Overview OF MCC As a development and extension of Cloud Computing and Mobile Computing, Mobile Cloud Computing, as a new phrase, has been devised since 2009(Han Qi et al 2012).


text:
Q: Parsing html, grabbing nodeValue problem with DOMdocument Trying to parse html page, but having some trouble at grabbing nodeValue's of dt and dd tags.
$outline ="http://www.sumitomo-rd-mansion.jp/kansai/higashi_umeda/detail.cgi";
foreach ($outlineUrl as $results) {
        if (strpos($results, 'http://www.sumitomo-rd-mansion.jp') === 0) {
            $html = file_get_contents($results);
            $DOMParser = new \DOMDocument();
            $DOMParser->loadHTML($html);

            $changeForMyDB = [
                'region' => '関西',
                'link' => json_encode($results),
                'building_name' => '',
                'price' => '不明',
                'old_price' => '',
                'extend' => '不明',
                'address' => '',
                'total_house' => '',
                'rooms' => '',
                'cons_finish' => '',
                'entry' => '不明',
                'balcony' => '不明',
                'company_name' => '',
                'list_from' => ''
            ];

                foreach ($DOMParser->getElementsByTagName('dl') as $tr) {
                    $property = trim($tr->getElementsByTagName('dt')[0]->nodeValue);
                    $value = trim($tr->getElementsByTagName('dd')[0]->nodeValue);

                    switch ($property) {
                        case '物件名':
                            $changeForMyDB['building_name'] = $value;
                            break;
                        case '販売価格':
                            $changeForMyDB['price'] = $value;
                            break;
                        case '専有面積':
                            $changeForMyDB['extend'] = $value;
                            break;
                        case '所在地':
                            $changeForMyDB['address'] = $value;
                            break;
                        case '総戸数':
                            $changeForMyDB['total_house'] = $value;
                            break;
                        case '間取り':
                            $changeForMyDB['rooms'] = $value;
                            break;
                        case '竣工時期':
                            $changeForMyDB['cons_finish'] = $value;
                            break;
                        case '管理会社':
                            $changeForMyDB['company_name'] = $value;
                            break;
                        case '入居時期':
                            $changeForMyDB['entry'] = $value;
                            break;
                        case 'バルコニー面積':
                            $changeForMyDB['balcony'] = $value;
                            break;
                        default:
                            break;
                    }
                }
            }

        var_dump($changeForMyDB);
        }

With this I can't grab all the dl's dt and dt nodeValue. Just getting two. Is my foreach loops wrong or something? Thanks for helping me out!

A: There are quite a few problems with the code, I've done this with comments to help...
// Variable for list of details
$details = [];
// outlineUrl is an array of URL's (not a single string which doesn't work in foreach()
$outlineUrl = ["http://www.sumitomo-rd-mansion.jp/kansai/higashi_umeda/detail.cgi"];
foreach ($outlineUrl as $results) {
    $html = file_get_contents($results);
    $DOMParser = new \DOMDocument();
    // Turn off some error reporting on import
    libxml_use_internal_errors(true);
    $DOMParser->loadHTML($html);      // There was a missing ';'

    foreach ($DOMParser->getElementsByTagName('dl') as $tr) {
        // Build up a list of details (you were overwriting them all the time)

        $dd = $tr->getElementsByTagName('dd');
        foreach ( $tr->getElementsByTagName('dt') as $key => $ent )  {
            $details[] = [ 'property' => trim($ent->nodeValue),
                'value' => trim($dd[$key]->nodeValue) ];
        }
    }
}
// Output list of details
var_dump($details);

The will loop over all the pairs of <dt> and <dd> values in each <dl...> tag.
Updated code...
$details = [];
$outlineUrl = ["http://www.sumitomo-rd-mansion.jp/kansai/higashi_umeda/detail.cgi"];
foreach ($outlineUrl as $results) {
    $html = file_get_contents($results);
    $DOMParser = new \DOMDocument();
    file_put_contents("test.html", $html);
    libxml_use_internal_errors(true);
    $DOMParser->loadHTML($html);

    foreach ($DOMParser->getElementsByTagName('dl') as $tr) {
        $dd = $tr->getElementsByTagName('dd');
        $newDetails = [];
        foreach ( $tr->getElementsByTagName('dt') as $key => $ent )  {
            $value = trim($dd[$key]->nodeValue);
            switch ($ent->nodeValue) {
                case '物件名':
                    $newDetails['building_name'] = $value;
                    break;
                case '販売価格':
                    $newDetails['price'] = $value;
                    break;
                case '専有面積':
                    $newDetails['extend'] = $value;
                    break;
                case '所在地':
                    $newDetails['address'] = $value;
                    break;
                case '総戸数':
                    $newDetails['total_house'] = $value;
                    break;
                case '間取り':
                    $details['rooms'] = $value;
                    break;
                case '竣工時期':
                    $newDetails['cons_finish'] = $value;
                    break;
                case '管理会社':
                    $newDetails['company_name'] = $value;
                    break;
                case '入居時期':
                    $newDetails['entry'] = $value;
                    break;
                case 'バルコニー面積':
                    $newDetails['balcony'] = $value;
                    break;
                default:
                    break;
            }
        }
        $details[] = $newDetails;
    }
}

var_dump($details);


text:
High Hopes: What's Happened to Colorado's Napa Valley of Weed?
High Hopes: Rising Tide in the Desert – Part 3
High Hopes: License and Registration, Please – Part 2
Local Author's Debut Novel is a Hand in the Effort to End the Stigma of Suicide
Ray LaMontagne talks with PULP about his 'mixed bag' process ahead of his two-night tour stop in Colorado
Claude Monet at the DAM – a Once-in-a-Generation Showing of Nature's Truth
100% Independent
Delaware-sized iceberg separates from Antartica
Associated Press· July 13, 2017
A vast iceberg with twice the volume of Lake Erie broke off from the Larsen C ice shelf, scientists said Wednesday, July 12, 2017. The iceberg is described as weighing 1 trillion tons (1.12 trillion U.S. tons). (British Antarctic Survey via AP)
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One of the biggest icebergs ever recorded, a trillion-ton behemoth more than seven times the size of New York City, has broken off of Antarctica, triggering disagreement among scientists over whether global warming is to blame.
The event, captured by satellite, happened sometime in the past few days when the giant chunk snapped off an ice shelf.
While such "calving" of icebergs is not unusual, this is an especially big one. It covers an area of roughly 2,300 square miles (6,000 square kilometers), more than twice the size of Luxembourg. Its volume is twice that of Lake Erie, according to Project MIDAS, a research group based in Britain.
It broke loose from the Larsen C ice shelf, which scientists had been monitoring for months as they watched a crack grow more than 120 miles (200 kilometers) long.
Scientists say global warming has caused a thinning of such shelves, but they differ on whether the latest event can be blamed on climate change.
The iceberg is considered unlikely to pose any threat to shipping. And since the ice was already floating, the breakup won't raise sea levels in the short term, the project said in a statement.
But it removed more than 10 percent of the ice shelf, and if that eventually hastens the flow of glaciers behind it into the water, there could be a "very modest" rise in sea level, the project said.
Two other Antarctic ice shelves, farther north on the Antarctic Peninsula, collapsed in 1995 and 2002. That sped up the slide of glaciers, which contributed to sea-level rise, David Vaughan, director of science at the British Antarctic Survey, said in a statement.
"Our glaciologists will now be watching closely to see whether the remaining Larsen C ice shelf becomes less stable than before the iceberg broke free," he said.
Eric Rignot, a glaciologist at the University of California, Irvine, said the breaking off of the iceberg "is part of a long-term major loss of the ice shelves in the peninsula, progressing southbound and resulting from climate warming."
But Swansea University glaciologist Martin O'Leary, a member of the MIDAS project, called it "a natural event, and we're not aware of any link to human-induced climate change."
And a spokeswoman for the British Antarctic survey said there's not enough information to say whether the calving is an effect of climate change, though there's good evidence global warming has caused thinning of the ice shelf.
As for any danger to navigation, scientists said the iceberg will probably break up and its pieces will circle Antarctica for years or decades rather than drifting northward into shipping lanes.
scienceweathericebergAntarcticaglaciologists
ColoradoUS & World
Expect bigger, more damaging hail storms as they hit areas with growing populations
Associated Press· August 14, 2018
Girls who rock, a wilderness program is teaching girls science in Colorado's wilderness
DANIKA WORTHINGTON, The Denver Post· August 12, 2018
Rare, life-threatening wildfire weather threatening Southwest
Associated Press· April 17, 2018
The Greenhorn Mountain tornado nobody saw
Kara Mason· July 12, 2017
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text:
Marisa Coulter est un personnage de fiction et l'un des personnages principaux de la trilogie À la croisée des mondes (), de Philip Pullman. Bien que ce ne soit pas révélé immédiatement, elle est la mère de l'héroïne Lyra Belacqua, qu'elle a eue avec Lord Asriel.

 est décrite comme une femme extrêmement séduisante, qui doit avoir un peu plus de trente-cinq ans ; très intelligente et cultivée, c'est de plus une brillante oratrice qui exerce un charme et une fascination redoutables sur son entourage. C'est un membre très actif de l'Église et du Magisterium et elle a fondé le Conseil d'Oblation. Son dæmon est un singe au pelage doré, dont le nom, révélé dans la version audio, est Ozymandias.

Biographie fictive
De prime abord, Marisa Coulter semble très douce, à l'écoute des autres, et gagne facilement la confiance des gens. Lors de sa première rencontre avec Lyra, elle s'attire sans peine sa sympathie et son admiration en lui contant ses voyages dans le Nord. Mais il s'avère bien vite qu'elle est en réalité une manipulatrice capable des plus vils actes, et que son dæmon-singe est aussi démoniaque qu'elle. Terriblement cruelle, sans pitié et ambitieuse, elle est prête à tout pour obtenir le pouvoir. Elle a assassiné, torturé, brisé la vie d'innombrables gens, toujours avec plaisir. Pour découvrir la vérité sur le péché originel, elle n'a pas hésité à séquestrer et mutiler des centaines d'enfants innocents. Son organisation, le Conseil d'Oblation, a pour objectif de découvrir l'origine et la véritable nature de la Poussière en séparant des enfants de leurs dæmons au cours d'un procédé mutilant appelé intercision.

Manipulatrice, froide et lucide, Madame Coulter utilise les gens comme des pions dont elle se débarrasse dès qu'elle n'a plus besoin d'eux (Sir Charles Latrom, Iofur Raknison…). Elle possède un grand savoir-faire pour taire les aspects les plus égoïstes et manipulateurs de sa personnalité, et est également extrêmement déterminée, calculatrice et impitoyable. Ses connexions politiques sont en outre immenses.

Les sentiments et les désirs des autres ne lui importent guère. C'est une excellente actrice qui a abusé de la confiance de tous et menti avec jubilation. Jamais elle n'a fait preuve de gentillesse ou d'amour sans réclamer quelque chose en échange. En conclusion, elle est, comme la définit l'ange Métatron lorsqu'il l'analyse, un « cloaque d'obscénité morale » :

Elle n'agit guère différemment avec son unique enfant, Lyra, qu'elle a eue avec son ancien amant Lord Asriel – probablement le seul homme qu'elle ait jamais aimé. Dans le premier tome, elle la recueille chez elle dans le seul but de l'utiliser pour kidnapper d'autres enfants. Mais au fur et à mesure que l'histoire se déroule, il semblerait que ses sentiments pour Lyra évoluent : dans Le Miroir d'ambre, elle affirme qu'elle l'aime passionnément, comme une mère aime sa fille, et qu'elle regrette tout ce qu'elle lui a fait subir. Cette déclaration apparaît comme sincère, et non comme un autre mensonge. Elle se réconcilie aussi plus ou moins avec son amant Lord Asriel. Cela dit, ses innombrables mensonges rendent tout cela assez difficile à croire, mais vers la fin de l'histoire, elle accomplit maints sacrifices pour Lyra et Asriel.

On sait peu de choses du passé de Marisa Coulter : elle a été mariée pendant un certain temps à Edward Coulter, un homme politique en pleine ascension, très proche du Roi : c'est d'ailleurs sans doute pour cette raison qu'elle l'a épousé, obnubilée par sa quête de pouvoir. Mais le jour où elle rencontre Lord Asriel, alors explorateur riche et puissant, elle tombe instantanément amoureuse de lui. Lorsqu'elle tombe enceinte de Lyra, elle ne veut pas avouer à son époux qu'il n'est pas le père ; mais, après sa naissance, il s'avère qu'elle ressemble beaucoup à Asriel, et Edward a vent de sa tentative de cacher l'enfant : il se précipite chez la gitane pour tuer le bébé mais Asriel arrive à temps pour l'en empêcher et lui tire dessus avec son revolver. Dès cette tragédie, Madame Coulter abandonne totalement sa fille. Furieuse, dégoûtée de tous les problèmes qu'elle avait apportés, elle l'élimine totalement de sa vie, ainsi qu'Asriel. Ce dernier, jugé pour le meurtre d'Edward Coulter, est privé de ses richesses et de ses terres et devient miséreux. Écœuré par l'attitude de son ancienne maîtresse, il décide de faire tout ce qui est en son pouvoir pour qu'elle ne puisse pas approcher l'enfant.

Description physique
Physiquement, elle est décrite dans À la croisée des mondes comme une  aux . Philip Pullman n'a pas désapprouvé le choix d'en faire une femme blonde dans l'adaptation cinématographique, expliquant qu'il regrettait ne pas l'avoir faite blonde en premier lieu. Dans La Belle Sauvage publié en 2017, Pullman la décrit d'ailleurs comme une femme aux cheveux blonds () .

Développement du personnage

Marisa Coulter est basé sur Lilith, personnage apocryphe d'Éden et première compagne d'Adam, symbole de la révolte féminine.

Lilith est le prototype de la femme fatale, à la sexualité insatiable, pleine d'assurance et indépendante, ce qui correspond parfaitement à la personnalité de Madame Coulter, qui combine la connaissance et la beauté. Son personnage, vil, trompeur et vicieux possède un magnétisme hypnotisant, pour les hommes principalement, et Pullman souligne en elle le pouvoir féminin de celle qui sait utiliser tous les atouts qui sont à sa portée pour réussir dans le monde masculin qu'il dépeint.

En agriculture, le nom commun  est une sorte de lame de charrue : une analogie avec son personnage peut être faite, notamment en raison de ses commentaires cinglants et surtout de son implication dans le processus d'intercision.

Le singe doré

Son dæmon-singe aide Marisa Coulter dans tous ses plans, dusse-t-il pour cela blesser les dæmons des autres. Tout comme elle, il aime faire souffrir les êtres vivants et, entre autres, torturer des chauves-souris. Tout comme elle, son apparence magnifique cache une cruauté sans pareille.

Il est extrêmement rare de le voir communiquer par la parole.

Il est représenté par un singe Rhinopithèque de Roxellane dans la série de 2019, et par un Tamarin-lion doré dans le film de 2007.

Analyse

Adaptations

En 1999,  est doublée dans la version audio des romans par l'actrice Alison Dowling, et elle est doublée en 2003 par Emma Fielding dans la version radio de la BBC. Dans l'adaptation au théâtre des romans en 2003 et 2004, elle est interprétée par Patricia Hodge.

En 2007, dans le film À la croisée des mondes : La Boussole d'or (The Golden Compass), Marisa Coulter est incarnée par Nicole Kidman.

En 2019, c'est l'actrice Ruth Wilson qui interprète le personnage dans la série His Dark Materials : À la croisée des mondes.

Notes et références

Annexes

Bibliographie

Articles connexes
 Philip Pullman
 À la croisée des mondes

Liens externes
  Site officiel de Philip Pullman
  Site officiel sur Scholastic (éditeur britannique)
  Site officiel sur Random House (éditeur américain)

Personnage de À la croisée des mondes
Personnage de film de fantasy

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


text:
Fox Hollow Estate
Garden on the Butte
Libeskind Garden
Milstein Garden
Star Farm
The Pattern Language Garden
Urban Farmstead
Wiley Garden
Wellsprings Friends School
The Popularization Of The Front Porch
October 1st 2013
The majority of homes in America boast front porches, whether they are simple and modest or elegant and expansive in design. But, why? What is it about the porch that has resulted in its reign as a standard commodity in North American landscape architecture?
The name Andrew Jackson Downing carries with it the answers to such questions. Downing was not only a dedicated landscape designer, horticulturist, ad writer, but also a pioneer of American landscape architecture. He is considered by many to be largely responsible for the popularization of the front porch, because he widely publicized the notion that the feature serves as a necessary intermediary between nature and the home.
According to Downing, a porch "serves both as a note of preparation, and an effectual shelter and protection to the entrance" of a home. This brilliant landscape architect perceived the porch as an important addition to the home that not only establishes continuity between the home and the land, but that also invites one to admire and enjoy nature more comfortably.
Lovinger Robertson Landscape Architects share in Downing's passion for establishing unity between the home, those who dwell within it, and the surrounding landscape. If you wish to create a cohesive residential, commercial, or institutional space, contact Lovinger Robertson Landscape Architects today. Through our careful three-step process of analysis, design, and installation, we will gladly work with you to plan and actualize landscape and architectural designs that reflect your desires.
A treatise on the theory and practice of landscape gardening, adapted to North America; with a view to the improvement of country residences ... with remarks on rural architecture. By the late A.J. Downing, esq.
Downing, A. J. (Andrew Jackson), 1815-1852., Sargent, Henry Winthrop, 1810-1882.
New York: A.O. Moore & co., 1859.
Why Do We Build Retaining Walls?
Building a retaining wall is a cost-effective and attractive solution that accommodates – or manufactures – elevation changes in the landscape of your yard. This practical feature serves many purposes, some of which are often overlooked.
A retaining wall can form the framework in which perfectly scaled outdoor living spaces are carved into hillsides. They can add character to raised gardens as well, and keep soil from washing away during watering or rain showers. The retaining wall can renew structural integrity along roadways that have been built near waterways. It may form a bench while containing an above-ground water feature, or a balcony embracing a terrace with a view. But regardless of its function, great spatial design and the use of appropriate materials for the architecture and context of the site should tell the story of that function in a beautiful and meaningful way.
© 2018 Lovinger Robertson Landscape Architects, LLC
Website Design by Ruby Porter
Website Development by Partnered Solutions IT


text:
Vibrant wigs worn by top drag queens featured at new Allentown pop-up exhibit
By Jennifer Sheehan
It's a pop-up exhibit within a pop-up exhibit.
A collection of brightly colored wigs designed by Will Doughty, who has styled wigs for drag queens featured on the popular show "RuPaul's Drag Race," will be on display in the pop-up gallery of the Bradbury-Sullivan LGBT Community Center.
The temporary gallery space is on Allentown's ArtsWalk, across from the Downtown Allentown Market.
Doughty has styled wigs for drag queens featured on "RuPaul's Drag Race," including Jujubee, Shangela and Jinkx Monsoon.
The wig pop-up will run through Dec. 30 and run parallel to the ongoing #MascFem exhibit, featuring new paintings by Broadway makeup artist Joe Dulude II.
A collection of brightly colored wigs designed by Will Doughty, who has styled wigs for drag queens featured on the popular show "RuPaul's Drag Race," will be on display in the pop-up gallery of the Bradbury-Sullivan LGBT Community Center. (VH1)
Since 2003, Dulude has been designing makeup for Broadway and off-Broadway shows such as "Wicked," "Beetlejuice" and "SpongeBob SquarePants the Musical." He has also worked in TV and film, and received an Emmy nomination for his work on "Jesus Christ Superstar, Live" on NBC.
"#MASCFEM," his debut fine art exhibit, explores the juxtaposition of the masculine and the feminine inside each of us.
The Fine Art Galleries at Bradbury-Sullivan LGBT Community Center reopened in the pop-up space on the Allentown Arts Walk in early November.
The current operating hours for the gallery are 11 a.m. to 6 p.m. Tuesday through Friday, in addition to by appointment. Capacity at the gallery is limited to 5 people at a time. Face masks will be required to enter the gallery and hand sanitizer will be available.
Info: https://www.bradburysullivancenter.org/
'MLK/FBI' probes when bureau bugged Martin Luther King Jr.
ArtsQuest plans to focus on outdoor events for now. What does this mean for Musikfest 2021?
Gene Siskel Film Center names Rebecca Fons director of programming


So if you have not been following me at all you haven't heard the great news! I'll be going on my first west coast tour THIS December with my homies in The Doubleclicks. We'll be driving down the coast from December 8th to the 15th starting in Seattle and ending in LA. Along the way we'll also be hitting stops in Portland, Eugene, Santa Barbara, Santa Cruz, Los Angeles and GaymerX in Santa Cruz. For a full list of dates and locations you can head to my tour page or the Doubleclicks' page. See you there!


text:
August 8, 2010 by ab
A Journey Through Darkness
IT IS A SPARKLING DAY IN MID-JUNE, the sun out in full force, the sky a limpid blue. I am lying on my back on the grass, listening to the intermittent chirping of nearby birds; my eyes are closed, the better to savor the warmth on my face. As I soak up the rays I think about summers past, the squawking of seagulls on the beach and walking along the water with my daughter, picking out enticing seashells, arguing over their various merits. My mind floats away into a space where chronology doesn't count: I am back on the beach of my adolescence, lost in a book, or talking to my old college chum Bethanie as we brave the bay water in front of her parents' house in Connecticut, where she comes to visit every summer.
In the 20 or so minutes of "fresh air" allotted after lunch (one of four such breaks on the daily schedule), I try to forget where I am, imaging myself elsewhere than in this fenced-off concrete garden bordered by the West Side Highway on one side and Riverside Drive on the other, planted with patches of green and a few lonely flowers, my movements watched over by a more or less friendly psychiatric aide. Soggy as my brain is from being wrenched off a slew of antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications in the last 10 days, I reach for a Coleridgian suspension of disbelief, ignoring the roar of traffic and summoning up the sound of breaking waves.
I have only to open my eyes for the surreal scene to come back into my immediate line of vision, like a picnic area without picnickers: two barbecue grills, bags of mulch that seem never to be opened, empty planters, clusters of tables and chairs, the entire area cordoned off behind a high mesh fence. Looking out onto the highway overpass there is a green-and-white sign indicating "Exit — West 178th Street"; nearer to the entrance another sign explains: "The Patients' Park & Garden is for the use of patients and their families only, and for staff escorting patients. It is NOT for staff use."
I can see R., the most recent addition to our dysfunctional gang of 12 on 4 Center, sitting on a bench in his unseasonal cashmere polo, smoking a cigarette and tapping his foot with equal intensity. On either side of him are ragtag groups of people culled from several units of the hospital, including the one I am on, which is devoted primarily to the treatment of patients with depression or eating disorders. (The anorexic girls, whom R. refers to as "the storks," are in various phases of imperceptible recovery and tend to stick together.) The garden is also home to patients from 4 South, which caters to patients from within the surrounding Washington Heights community, and 5 South, which treats patients with psychotic and substance-abuse disorders.
The people on 4 Center, hidden away as it is in a small building, have next to no contact with the other units; we might as well be on different planets. Then again, as those who suffer from it know, intractable depression creates a planet all its own, largely impermeable to influence from others except as shadow presences, urging you to come out and rejoin the world, take in a movie, go out for a bite, cheer up. By the time I admitted myself to the hospital last June after a downhill period of six months, I felt isolated in my own pitch-darkness, even when I was in a room full of conversation and light.
DEPRESSION — THE THICK BLACK paste of it, the muck of bleakness — was nothing new to me. I had done battle with it in some way or other since childhood. It is an affliction that often starts young and goes unheeded — younger than would seem possible, as if in exiting the womb I was enveloped in a gray and itchy wool blanket instead of a soft, pastel-colored bunting. Perhaps I am overstating the case; I don't think I actually began as a melancholy baby, if I am to go by photos of me, in which I seem impish, with sparkly eyes and a full smile. All the same, who knows but that I was already adopting the mask of all-rightness that every depressed person learns to wear in order to navigate the world?
I do know that by the age of 5 or 6, in my corduroy overalls, racing around in Keds, I had begun to be apprehensive about what lay in wait for me. I felt that events had not conspired in my favor, for many reasons, including the fact that in my family there were too many children and too little attention to go around. What attention there was came mostly from an abusive nanny who scared me into total compliance and a mercurial mother whose interest was often unkindly. By age 8 I was wholly unwilling to attend school, out of some combination of fear and separation anxiety. (It seems to me now, many years later, that I was expressing early on a chronic depressive's wish to stay home, on the inside, instead of taking on the outside, loomingly hostile world in the form of classmates and teachers.) By 10 I had been hospitalized because I cried all the time, although I don't know if the word "depression" was ever actually used.
As an adult, I wondered incessantly: What would it be like to be someone with a brighter take on things? Someone possessed of the necessary illusions without which life is unbearable? Someone who could get up in the morning without being held captive by morose thoughts doing their wild and wily gymnastics of despair as she measures out tablespoons of coffee from their snappy little aluminum bag: You shouldn't. You should have. Why are you? Why aren't you? There's no hope, it's too late, it has always been too late. Give up, go back to bed, there's no hope. There's so much to do. There's not enough to do. There is no hope.
Surely this is the worst part of being at the mercy of your own mind, especially when that mind lists toward the despondent at the first sign of gray: the fact that there is no way out of the reality of being you, a person who is forever noticing the grime on the bricks, the flaws in the friends — the sadness that runs under the skin of things, like blood, beginning as a trickle and ending up as a hemorrhage, staining everything. It is a sadness that no one seems to want to talk about in public, at cocktail-party sorts of places, not even in this Age of Indiscretion. Nor is the private realm particularly conducive to airing this kind of implacably despondent feeling, no matter how willing your friends are to listen. Depression, truth be told, is both boring and threatening as a subject of conversation. In the end there is no one to intervene on your behalf when you disappear again into what feels like a psychological dungeon — a place that has a familiar musky smell, a familiar lack of light and excess of enclosure — except the people you've paid large sums of money to talk to over the years. I have sat in shrinks' offices going on four decades now and talked about my wish to die the way other people might talk about their wish to find a lover.
Then there is this: In some way, the quiet terror of severe depression never entirely passes once you've experienced it. It hovers behind the scenes, placated temporarily by medication and renewed energy, waiting to slither back in, unnoticed by others. It sits in the space behind your eyes, making its presence felt even in those moments when other, lighter matters are at the forefront of your mind. It tugs at you, keeping you from ever being fully at ease. Worst of all, it honors no season and respects no calendar; it arrives precisely when it feels like it.
MY MOST RECENT BOUT, the one that landed me on 4 Center, an under-the-radar research unit at the New York State Psychiatric Institute, asserted itself on New Year's Eve, the last day of 2007. The precipitating factors included everything and nothing, as is just about always the case — some combination of vulnerable genetics and several less-than-optimal pieces of fate.
Despite my grim mood, I had somehow or other managed to put on makeup, pull on clothes, affix pearl earrings and go to a civilized old-New York type of dinner, where we talked of ongoing things — children, schools, plays to see, reasons to live as opposed to reasons to die. But even as I talked and laughed with the other guests, my thoughts were dark, scrambling ones, ruthless in their sniping insistence. You're a failure. A burden. Useless. Worse than useless: worthless. Shortly past midnight, I watched the fireworks over Central Park and stared into the exploding bursts of color — red, white and blue, squiggles of green, streaks of purple, balls of silver, sparks of champagne. My 17-year-old daughter, Zoë, was standing nearby, and as I looked into the fireworks I sent entreaties into the sky. Make me better. Make me remember this moment of absorption in fireworks, the energy of the thing. Make me go forward. Stop listening for drum rolls. Pay attention to the ordinary calls to engage, messages on your answering machine telling you to buck up, it's not so bad, from the ex, siblings, people who care.
For the next six months I countered the depression with everything I had, escaping into the narcotic of reading, taking on a few writing assignments (all of which I delivered weeks, if not months, late), meeting friends for dinner, teaching a writing class and even taking a trip to St. Tropez with a close friend. I gobbled down my usual medley of pills — Lamictal, Risperdal, Wellbutrin and Lexapro — and wore an Emsam patch. (I have not been free of psychotropic medication for any substantial period since my early 20s.) But this was not a passing episode that a schedule full of distractions and medication could assuage. Although many depressions resolve themselves within a year, with or without treatment, sometimes they take hold and won't let go, becoming incrementally worse with each passing day, until suicide seems like the only exit. This was one of those depressions.
In the weeks leading up to my checking into 4 Center, I had gone from being able to put on a faltering imitation of mental health to giving up all pretense of a manageable disguise. Since I found it painful to be conscious, I had stopped doing much of anything except sleeping. Mornings were the worst: I got up later and later, first 11, then noon, and now it was more like 2 in the afternoon, the day three-quarters gone. "I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day," observed the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, a depressive 19th-century Jesuit priest. I don't think I've ever met a depressed person who wanted to get out of bed in the morning — who didn't experience the appearance of day as a call to burrow further under the covers, the better to embrace the vanished night.
When I was awake (the few hours that I was), I felt a kind of lethal fatigue, as if I were swimming through tar. Phone messages went unanswered, e-mail unread. In my inert but agitated state I could no longer concentrate long enough to read — not so much as a newspaper headline — and the idea of writing was as foreign to me as downhill racing. (James Baldwin: "No one works better out of anguish at all; that's an incredible literary conceit.") I barely ate — there is no more effective diet than clinical depression — and had dropped 30 pounds. I had essentially withdrawn from communication. When I did speak, it was mostly about my wish to commit suicide, a wish that was never all that far from my mind but at times like these became insistent.
Although some tiny part of me retained a dim sense of the more functioning person I once was — like a room with a closed door that was never entered anymore — it became increasingly difficult to envision myself ever inhabiting that version of myself again. There had been too many recurrent episodes, too many years of trying to fight off this debilitating demon of a thing. It has been called by different names at different times in history — melancholia, malaise, cafard, brown study, the blues, the black dog, acedia — and has been treated as a spiritual malady, a failure of will, a biochemical malfunctioning, a psychic conundrum, sometimes all at once. Whatever it was, it had come to define me, filling out all the available space, leaving no possibility of a "before" or an "after." Instead I harbored the hallucinatory conviction that I had stayed around the scene of my own life too long — that I was, in some unyielding sense, ex post facto.
I had also quite literally ground to a halt, like a machine that had hit a glitch and frozen on the spot. I moved at a glacial pace and talked haltingly, in a voice that was lower and flatter than my usual one. As I discovered from my therapist and psychopharmacologist — both of whom argued that I belonged in a hospital now that my depression had taken on "a life of its own," beyond the exertions of my will — there was a clinical name for my state: "psychomotor retardation." My biology, that is, had caught up and joined hands with the immediate psychodynamic stressors that precipitated my nosedive — the lingering aftermath of the death two years earlier of my mother, with whom I had a complicated relationship; the imminent separation from my college-age daughter, who was my boon companion; therapy that took a wrong turn; a romance that went awry. (Much as we would like to explain clinical depression by making it either genetics or environment, bad wiring or bad nurturing, it is usually a combination of the two that sets the illness off.)
And yet I resisted my doctors' suggestion that I check myself into a hospital. It seemed safer to stay where I was, no matter how out on a ledge I felt, than to lock myself away with other desperadoes in the hope that it would prove effective. Whatever fantasies I once harbored about the haven-like possibilities of a psychiatric facility or the promise of a definitive, once-and-for-all cure were shattered by my last stay 15 years earlier. I had written about the experience, musing on the gap between the alternately idealized and diabolical image of mental hospitals versus the more banal bureaucratic reality. I discussed the continued stigma attached to going public with the experience of depression, but all this had been expressed by the writer in me rather than the patient, and it seemed to me that part of the appeal of the article was the impression it gave that my hospital days were behind me. It would be a betrayal of my literary persona, if nothing else, to go back into a psychiatric unit.
What's more, after a lifetime of talk therapy and medication that never seemed to do more than patch over the holes in my self, I wasn't sure that I still believed in the concept of professional intervention. Indeed, I probably knew more about antidepressants than most analysts, having tried all three categories of psychotropics separately or in combination as they became available — the classic tricyclics, the now-unfashionable MAO inhibitors (which come with a major drawback in the form of dietary restrictions) as well as the newer S.S.R.I.'s. and S.N.R.I.'s. I was originally reluctant to try pills for something that seemed so intrinsic to who I was — the state of mind in which I lived, so to speak — until one of my first psychiatrists compared my emotional state to an ulcer. "You can't speak to an ulcer," he said. "You can't reason with it. First you cure the ulcer, then you go on to talk about the way you feel." My current regime of pills incorporated the latest approach, which called for the augmentation of a classic antidepressant (Effexor) with a small dose of a second-generation antipsychotic (Risperdal). From the time I was prescribed Prozac in my early 20s before it was approved by the Food and Drug Administration, you could say that the history of depression medication and my personal history came of age together, with me in the starring role of a lab rat.
Of course, none of the drugs work conclusively, and for now we are stuck with what comes down to a refined form of guesswork — 30-odd pills that operate in not completely understood ways on neural pathways, on serotonin, norepinephrine, dopamine and what have you. No one, not even the psychopharmacologists who dispense them after considering the odds, totally comprehends why they work when they work or why they don't when they don't. All the while the repercussions and the possible side effects (which include mild trembling on the one end to tardive dyskinesia, a rare condition that causes uncontrollable grimacing, on the other end) are shunted to the side until such time as they can no longer be ignored.
THE ONE THING PSYCHIATRIC hospitals are supposed to be good for is to keep you safe. But I was conflicted even about so primary an issue as survival. I wasn't sure I wanted to ambush my own downward spiral, where the light at the end of the tunnel, as the mood-disordered Robert Lowell once said, was just the light of the oncoming train. I saw myself go splat on the pavement with a kind of equanimity, with a sense of a foretold conclusion. Self-inflicted death had always held out a stark allure for me: I was fascinated by people who had the temerity to bring down the curtain on their own suffering — who didn't hang around, moping, in hopes of a brighter day. I knew all the arguments about the cowardice and selfishness (not to mention anger) involved in committing suicide, but nothing could persuade me that the act didn't require a perverse sort of courage, some steely embrace of self-extinction. At one and the same time, I have also always believed that suicide victims don't realize they won't be coming this way again. If you are depressed enough, it seems to me, you begin to conceive of death as a cradle, rocking you gently back to a fresh life, glistening with newness, unsullied by you.
Still, one flesh-and-blood reality stood in my way: I had a daughter I loved deeply, and I understood the irreparable harm it would cause her if I took my own life, despite feeling that if I truly cared about her I would free her from the presence of a mother who was more shade than sun. (What had Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton done with their guilt feelings? I wondered. Were they more narcissistic than I or just more strong-willed?) It was because of my daughter, after all, that I had given voice to my "suicidal ideation," as it's called, in the first place, worrying how she would get along without me. At the same time, I recognized that, for a person who was really set on ending it all, speaking your intention aloud was an act of self-betrayal. After all, in the process of articulating your death wish you were alerting other people, ensuring that they would try to stop you.
The real question was why no one ever seemed to figure this grim scenario out on her own, just by looking at you. This was enraging in and of itself — the fact that severe depression, much as it might be treated as an illness, didn't send out clear signals for others to pick up on; it did its deadly dismantling work under cover of normalcy. The psychological pain was agonizing, but there was no way of proving it, no bleeding wounds to point to. How much simpler it would be all around if you could put your mind in a cast, like a broken ankle, and elicit murmurings of sympathy from other people instead of skepticism ("You can't really be feeling as bad as all that") and in some cases outright hostility ("Maybe if you stopped thinking about yourself so much . . . ").
One more factor worked to keep me where I was, exiled in my own apartment, a prisoner of my affliction: the specter of ECT (electro-convulsive therapy). My therapist, a modern Freudian analyst whom I had been seeing for years and who had always struck me as only vaguely persuaded of the efficacy of medication for what ailed me — when I once experienced some bad side effects, he proposed that I consider going off all my pills just to see how I would fare, and after doing so I plummeted — had suddenly, in the last 10 days before I went into the hospital, become a cheerleader for undergoing ECT. I don't know why he grabbed on to this idea, why the sudden flip from chatting to zapping, other than for the fact that I had once wildly thrown it out — for the drowning, any life raft will do. Then, too, ECT, which causes the brain to go into seizure, was back in fashion for treatment-resistant depression after going off the radar in the '60s and '70s in the wake of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Perhaps I had frightened him with my insistent talk of wanting to cut out for good; perhaps he didn't want to be held responsible for the death of a patient who compulsively wrote about herself and would undoubtedly leave evidence that would tie him to her. But his shift from a psychoanalytic stance that focused on the subjective mind to a neurobiological stance that focused on the hypothesized workings of the physical brain left me scared and distrustful.
What if ECT would just leave me a stranger to myself, with chopped-up memories of my life before and immediately after? I may have hated my life, but I valued my memories — even the unhappy ones, paradoxical as that may seem. I lived for the details, and the writer I once was made vivid use of them. The cartoonish image of my head being fried, tiny shocks and whiffs of smoke coming off it as the electric current went through, haunted me even though I knew that ECT no longer was administered with convulsive force, jolting patients in their straps.
But in the end, no matter how much I wanted to stay put, I ran out of resistance. I spent the weekend before going into the hospital in my oldest sister's apartment, lost in the Gothic kingdom of depression: I was unable to move from the bed, trapped in interior debates about jumping off a roof versus throwing myself in front of a car. Yet somewhere in the background were other voices — my sister's, my doctors' — arguing on behalf of my sticking around; I could half-hear them. I wanted to die, but at the same time I didn't want to, not completely. Suicide could wait, my sister said. Why didn't I give the hospital a chance? She relayed messages from each of my doctors that they would look out for me on the unit. No one would force me to do anything, including ECT. I felt too tired to argue.
THAT MONDAY MORNING, I returned home and packed up two small bags. I threw in a disproportionate number of books (especially given the fact that I couldn't read), a couple of pairs of linen pants and cotton T-shirts, my favorite night cream (although I hadn't touched it in weeks) and a photo of my daughter, the last with the thought of anchoring myself. In return for agreeing to undergo one of several available protocols — either switching my medication or availing myself of ECT — I would get to stay at 4 Center as long as I needed at no cost. My sister picked me up in a cab, and as I recall, I cried the whole ride up there, watching the passing view with an elegaic sense of leave-taking.
As soon as my sister gave my name to the nurse whose head appeared in the window of the locked door to the unit and we were both let in, I knew immediately that this wasn't where I wanted to be. Everything seemed empty and silent under the fluorescent lighting except for one 40-ish man pacing up and down the hallway in a T-shirt and sweat pants, seemingly oblivious to what was going on around him. Underneath the kind of baldfaced clock you see in train stations were two run-down pay phones; there was something sad about the glaring outdatedness of them, especially since I associated them almost exclusively with hospitals and certain barren corners of Third Avenue. And then, in what seemed like an instant, my sister was saying goodbye, promising that all would turn out for the better, and I was left to fend for myself.
My bags were taken behind the glassed-in nurse's station and checked for potential weapons of self-destruction referred to as "sharps" — razors, scissors, mirrors — which were taken away until your departure. Cellphones were also forbidden for reasons that seemed unclear even to the staff but had something to do with their photo-taking ability. In my intake interview, I alternated between breaking down in tears and repeating that I wanted to go home, like a woeful 7-year-old left behind at sleep-away camp. The admitting nurse, who was pleasant enough in a down-to-earth way, was hardly swept away by gusts of empathy with my bereft state. And yet I wanted to stay in the room and keep talking to her forever, if only to avoid going back out on to the unit, with its pathetically slim collection of out-of-date magazines, ugly groupings of wooden furniture cushioned with teal and plum vinyl and airless TV rooms — one overrun, the other desolate. Anything to avoid being me, feeling numb and desperate, thrust into a place that felt like the worst combination of exposure and anonymity.
I emerged in time for dinner, which was served at the premature hour of 5:30, as if the night ahead were so chockablock with activities that we had to get this necessary ritual out of the way. Since in reality dinner led to nothing more strenuous than another bout of "fresh air" and lots of free time until the lights went out at 11, I would have thought that it would be a good occasion to dally. But as it turned out, the other patients were finished eating within 10 or 15 minutes, and I found myself alone at the table, not yet having realized that the point was to get in and out as quickly as possible.
It didn't help that the room we ate in was beyond dismal, featuring an out-of-tune piano and a Ping-Pong table that was never used. Or that, despite its being summer, there was barely any fresh fruit in sight except for autumnal apples and the occasional banana. There would be culinary bright moments — cream puffs were served on Father's Day, and one Tuesday the staff set up a barbecue lunch in the patients' park, where I munched on hot dogs and joined in a charadeslike game called Guesstures — but the general standard was determinedly low. After a while, I began requesting bottles of Ensure Plus, the liquid nutrition supplement that came in chocolate and vanilla and was a staple of the anorexics' meal plans; if you closed your eyes it could pass for a milkshake.
It wasn't only the anorexics' Ensure that I coveted. From the very first night, when sounds of conversation and laughter floated over from their group to the gloomy, near-silent table of depressives I had joined, I yearned to be one of them. Unlike our group, they were required to remain at lunch and dinner for a full half-hour, which of necessity created a more congenial atmosphere. No matter that one or two had been brought on to the floor on stretchers, as I was later informed, or that they were victims of a cruel, hard-to-treat disease with sometimes fatal implications; they still struck me as enviable. However heartbreakingly scrawny, they were all young (in their mid-20s or early 30s) and expectant; they talked about boyfriends and concerned parents, worked tirelessly on their "journaling" or on art projects when they weren't participating in activities designed exclusively for them, including "self-esteem" and "body image." They were clearly and poignantly victims of a culture that said you were too fat if you weren't too thin and had taken this message to heart. No one could blame them for their condition or view it as a moral failure, which was what I suspected even the nurses of doing about us depressed patients. In the eyes of the world, they were suffering from a disease, and we were suffering from being intractably and disconsolately — and some might say self-indulgently — ourselves.
I SHARED A SMALL ROOM right across from the nurse's station with a pretty, middle-aged woman who introduced herself before dinner — the only one to do so — with a remarkable amount of good cheer, as if we were meeting at a cocktail party. For a minute I felt that things couldn't be so terrible, that the unit couldn't be as abject a destination as I conceived it to be if this woman had deigned to throw her lot in with the rest of us. She wore "Frownies" — little patented patches that were supposed to minimize wrinkles — to bed, which only furthered the impression she conveyed of an ordinary adjustment to what I saw as extraordinary circumstances. Clearly, she had a future in mind, even if I didn't — one that required her to retain a fetching youthfulness. I hadn't so much as washed my face for the past few months, but here was someone who understood the importance of keeping up appearances, even on a psychiatric unit.
The room itself, on the other hand, couldn't have been less welcoming. Like the rest of the unit, it was lighted by overhead fluorescent bulbs that didn't so much illuminate as bring things glaringly into view. There were two beds, two night tables and two chests of drawers. In keeping with the Noah's-ark design ethos, the room was also furnished with a pair of enormous plastic trash cans; one stood near the door, casting a bleak plastic pall over things, and the other took up too much space in the tiny shared bathroom. The shower water came out of a flat fixture on the wall — the presence of a conventional shower head, I soon learned, was seen as a potential inducement to hanging yourself — and the weak flow was tepid at best.
I got into bed that first night, under the ratty white blanket, and tried to calm myself. The lack of a reading lamp added to my panic; even if my depression prevented me from losing myself in a book, the absence of a light source by which to read after dark represented the end of civilization as I had known it. (It turned out that you could bring in a battery-powered reading lamp of your own, albeit with the Kafkaesque restriction that it didn't make use of glass light bulbs.) My mind went round and round the same barrage of questions, like a persistent police inspector. How did I get here? How did I allow myself to get here? Why didn't I have the resolve to stay out? Why hadn't anything changed with the passage of years? It was one thing to be depressed in your 20s or 30s, when the aspect of youth gave it an undeniable poignancy, a certain tattered charm; it was another thing entirely to be depressed in middle age, when you were supposed to have come to terms with life's failings, as well as your own. Now that my mother was gone — I always thought she'd outlive me, but her lung cancer took precedence over my suicidal impulses — there was no one to blame for my depressions, no one to whom I could turn for some magical, longed-for compensation. But the truly intolerable part was that I had acquiesced in this godforsaken plan; there was ultimately no one to blame for my banishment to this remote-seeming outpost but myself.
I plumped the barracks-thin pillow, pulled up the sheet and blanket around me — the entire hospital was air-conditioned to a fine chill — and curled up, inviting sleep. There was nothing to feel so desperate about, I tried soothing myself. You're not a prisoner. You can ask to leave tomorrow. I listened to my roommate's calm, even breathing and wished I were her, wished I were anyone but myself. Mostly, I wished I were a person who wasn't consumingly depressed. All over the city, less depressed or entirely undepressed people were leading their ordinary lives, watching TV or blogging or having a late dinner. Why wasn't I among them? After staring into the darkness for what seemed like hours, I finally got up and put on my robe, having decided that I'd overcome my sense of being a specimen on display — here comes Mental Patient No. 12 — and approach the nurses' station about getting more sleeping meds.
Outside the room the light was blinding. Two of the aides were at the desk, playing some sort of word game on the computer screen. They looked up at me impassively and waited for me to state my case. I explained that I couldn't sleep, my voice sounding furry with anxiety. My hands were clammy and my mouth was dry. One of them got up and went into the back to check whether the resident in psychiatry who was assigned to me had approved the request. She handed me a pill in a little cup, and I mumbled something about how nervous I was feeling. "You'll feel better after you get some sleep," she said. I nodded and said, "Good night," feeling dismissed. "Night," she said, casual as could be. I was no one to her, no one to myself.
I SUPPOSE IT WOULD MAKE for some kind of symmetry — a glimpse of an upward trajectory, at least — if I said that the first night was the hardest, but the truth is that it never got any easier. My frantic sense of dislocation and abandonment persisted for the entire three weeks I spent on 4 Center, yielding only at rare moments to a slightly less anxious state of hibernation. I would eventually discover several friendlier nurses or nurses' aides with whom it was possible to talk about the bizarre reality of being on a psychiatric unit with a locked door and fiercely regulated visiting hours (5:30 to 8 on weekday evenings and 2 to 8 on weekends) without feeling like an official mental patient. By the end of the second week, when I was no longer chained to the unit, one of the male nurses would invite me for coffee breaks to the little eatery on the sixth floor where the hospital staff repaired for their meals.
These outings were always kept short — we never lingered for more than 15 minutes — and they always brought home to me how artificial the dividing line between 4 Center and the outside world really was. It could cause vertigo if you weren't careful. One minute you were in the shuttered-down universe of the verifiably unwell, of people who talked about their precarious inner states as if that were all that mattered, and the next you were admitted back into ordinary reality, where people were free to roam as they pleased and seemed filled with a sense of larger purpose. As I cradled my coffee, I looked on at the medical students who flitted in and out, holding their clipboards and notebooks, with a feeling verging on awe. How had they figured out a way to live without getting bogged down in the shadows? From what source did they draw all their energy? I couldn't imagine ever joining this world again, given how my time had become so aimlessly filled, waiting for calls to come in on the pay phone or sitting in "community meetings," in which people made forlorn and implausible requests for light-dimmers and hole-punchers and exiting patients tearfully thanked everyone on the unit for their help.
It wasn't as if there weren't attempts made to organize the days as they went sluggishly by. A weekly schedule was posted that gave the impression that we patients were quite the busy bees, what with therapy sessions, yoga, walks and creative-writing groups. Friday mornings featured my favorite group, "Coffee Klatch." This was run by the same amiable gym-coach-like woman who oversaw exercise, and it was devoted to board games of the Trivial Pursuit variety. The real draw was the promise of baked goods and freshly brewed coffee.
But in truth there was more uncharted time than not, especially for the depressives — great swaths of white space that wrapped themselves around the day, creating an undertow of lassitude. Forging friendships on the unit, which would have passed the time, was touch-and-go because patients came and went and the only real link was one of duress. The other restriction came with the territory: people were either comfortably settled into being on the unit, which was off-putting in one kind of way, or raring to get out, which was off-putting in another. I had become attached to my roommate, who was funny and somehow seemed above the fray, and I felt inordinately sad when she left, in possession of a new diagnosis and new medication, halfway into my stay.
Still, the consuming issue as far as I was concerned — the question that colored my entire stay — was whether I would undergo ECT. It was on my mind from the very beginning, if only because the first patient I encountered when I entered the unit, pacing up and down the halls, was in the midst of getting a series of ECT treatments and insisted loudly to anyone who would listen that they were destroying his brain. And indeed, the patients I saw returning from ECT acted dazed, as if an essential piece of themselves had been misplaced.
During the first week or so the subject lay mostly in abeyance as I was weaned off the medications I came in on and tried to acclimatize to life on 4 Center. I met daily with Dr. R., the young resident I saw the first evening, mostly to discuss why I shouldn't leave right away and what other avenues might be explored medicationwise. She sported a diamond engagement ring and a diamond wedding band that my eye always went to first thing; I took them as painful reminders that not everyone was as full of holes as I was, that she had made sparkling choices and might indeed turn out to be one of those put-together young women who had it all — the career, the husband, the children. During our half-hour sessions I tried to borrow from Dr. R.'s outlook, to see myself through her charitable eyes. I reminded myself that people found me interesting even if I had ceased to interest myself, and that the way I felt wasn't all my fault. But the reprieve was always short-lived, and within an hour of her departure I was back to staving off despair, doing battle with the usual furies.
One day early into my second week, I was called out of a therapy session to meet with a psychiatrist from the ECT unit. I still wonder whether this brief encounter was the defining one, scaring me off forever. She might as well have been a prison warden for all her interpersonal skills; we had barely said two words before she announced I was showing clear signs of being in a "neurovegetative" condition. She pointed out that I spoke slurringly and that my mind seemed to be crawling along as well, adding grimly that I would never be able to write again if I remained in this state. Her scrutiny seemed merciless: I felt attacked, as if there were nothing left of me but my illness. Obviously ECT was in order, she briskly concluded. I nodded, afraid to say much lest I sound imbecilic, but in my head the alarms were going off. No, it wasn't, I thought. Not yet. I'm not quite the pushover you take me to be. It was the first stirring of positive will on my own behalf, a delicate green bud that could easily be crushed, but I felt its force.
The strongest and most benign advocate for ECT was a psychiatrist at the institute who saw me three decades earlier and was instrumental in convincing me to come into 4 Center. In his formal but well-meaning way he pointed out that I lived with a level of depression that was unnecessary to live with and that my best shot for real relief was ECT. He came in to make his case once again as I was sitting at dinner on a Friday evening, pretending to nibble at a rubbery piece of chicken. The other patients had gone and my sister was visiting. I turned to her as he waxed almost passionate on my account, going on about the horror of my kind of treatment-resistant depression and the glorious benefits of ECT that would surely outweigh any downside. I didn't trust him, much as I wished to. Help me, I implored my sister without saying a word. I don't want this. Tears trickled down my cheeks as if I were a mute, wordless but still able to feel anguish. My sister spoke for me as if she were an interpreter of silence. It looked like I didn't want it, she said to the doctor, and my wishes had to be respected.
I COULD SEE MYSELF LINGERING on in the hospital, not because I had grown any more fond of the atmosphere but because after a certain amount of time it became easier to stay than to leave. The picayune details of my life — bills, appointments, deadlines — had been suspended during my last few months at home, then left outside the hospital confines altogether, and it began to seem inconceivable that I'd ever have the wherewithal to take them on again. Instead of growing stronger on the unit, I felt a kind of further weakening of my psychological muscle. The new medication I was on left me exhausted, and I took to going back to sleep after breakfast. I was tired even of being visited, of sitting in the hideous little lounge and making conversation, of expressing gratitude for the chocolates, smoked salmon and change for the pay phones that people brought. I felt as if I were being wished bon voyage over and over again, perennially about to leave on a trip that never happened.
I went out on several day passes in the week leading to my departure, as a kind of preparation for re-entry, but none of them were particularly successful. On one, I went out on a broiling Saturday afternoon with my daughter for a walk to the nearby Starbucks on 168th and Broadway. I felt thick-headed with the new sedating medication I was on and far away from her. When she left me for a minute to make a phone call on her cell, I started crying, as if something tragic had happened. I wondered uneasily what effect seeing me in this state was having on my daughter, what she made of my being in the hospital — did she view me as a burden that she would need to shoulder for the rest of her life? Would my depression rub off on her? — but in between we laughed at small, odd things as we always did, and it occurred to me that I wasn't as much a stranger to her as I was to myself.
With the staff's tentative agreement — they didn't think I was ready to go home but had no real reason to prevent me from doing so — I left 4 Center three weeks to the day I arrived, my belongings piled up on a trolley for greater mobility through the annex to the exit. It was a hot June day similar to the one I checked in on, the heat pouring off the windows of parked cars. Everything felt noisy and magnified. It felt shocking to be outside, knowing I was on a permanent pass this time, that I wouldn't be returning to the unit.
I was sent home on Klonopin, an anti-anxiety drug I'd been on forever, as well as a duet of pills — Remeron and Effexor — that were referred to as California rocket fuel for its presumed igniting effect. As it turned out, the combo wasn't destined to work on me. At home, I was gripped again by thoughts of suicide and clung to my bed, afraid to go out even on a walk around the block with my daughter. When I wasn't asleep, I stared into space, lost in the terrors of the far-off past, which had become the terrors of the present. It was decided that I shouldn't be left alone, so my sister and my good friend took turns staying with me. But it was clear this arrangement was short term, and by the end of the weekend, after phone calls to various doctors, it was agreed that I would go back into the hospital to try ECT.
And then, the Sunday afternoon before I planned to return to 4 Center, something shifted ever so slightly in my mind. I had gone off the Remeron and started a new drug, Abilify. I was feeling a bit calmer, and my bedroom didn't seem like such an alien place anymore. Maybe it was the fear of ECT, or perhaps the tweaked medication had kicked in, or maybe the depression had finally taken its course and was beginning to lift. I had — and still have — no real idea what did it. For a brief interval, no one was home, and I decided to get up and go outside. I stopped at Food Emporium and studied the cereal section, as amazed at the array as if I had just emerged from the gulag. I bought some paper towels and strawberries, and then I walked home and got back into bed. It wasn't a trip to the Yucatan, but it was a start. I didn't check into the hospital the next day and instead passed the rest of the summer slowly reinhabiting my life, coaxing myself along. I spent time with people I trusted, with whom I didn't have to pretend.
Toward the end of August I went out for a few days to the rented Southampton house of my friend Elizabeth. It was just her, me and her three annoying dogs. I had brought a novel along, "The Gathering," by Anne Enright, the sort of book about incomplete people and unhappy families that has always spoken to me. It was the first book to absorb me — the first I could read at all — since before I went into the hospital. I came to the last page on the third afternoon of my visit. It was about 4:30, the time of day that, by mid-August, brings with it a whiff of summer's end. I looked up into the startlingly blue sky; one of the dogs was sitting at my side, her warm body against my leg, drying me off after the swim I had recently taken. I could begin to see the curve of fall up ahead. There would be new books to read, new films to see and new restaurants to try. I envisioned myself writing again, and it didn't seem like a totally preposterous idea. I had things I wanted to say.
Everything felt fragile and freshly come upon, but for now, at least, my depression had stepped back, giving me room to move forward. I had forgotten what it was like to be without it, and for a moment I floundered, wondering how I would recognize myself. I knew for certain it would return, sneaking up on me when I wasn't looking, but meanwhile there were bound to be glimpses of light if only I stayed around and held fast to the long perspective. It was a chance that seemed worth taking.
Daphne Merkin is a contributing writer for the magazine. Her last article was about the Kabbalah Center.
Full article and photos: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/10/magazine/10Depression-t.html
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